Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin - Страница 40

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And no one—no one—here in Rennes knows my true identity, so my secrets will be safe.

At the faint murmur of approaching voices, I carefully tuck my moment of triumph away and inch toward the causeway.

“No, you cannot kill him. He is the duchess’s own cousin,” a man’s voice points out wryly.

“All the more reason not to trust him,” a woman says.

It is Ismae, and the joy and relief I feel at hearing her voice is nearly overwhelming.

“If something should happen to the duchess,” she continues, “he stands to inherit the kingdom. Besides, he has been a guest of the French regent for the last year. How do we know where his true allegiance lies?”

“He was a prisoner!” The man’s exasperation is nearly palpable.

When Ismae speaks again, she sounds aggrieved. “Why did you not stay with the council? The message was for me, not you.” Unable to stop myself, I smile. For it is such a very Ismae-like thing to say.

“Because the message was the sigil of Saint Camulos, whom I serve, not you.”

Then she and the gentleman emerge from the entryway and hurry toward the sentry. “Where did you get this?” the nobleman demands. He is tall, with dark hair and the well-muscled grace of a soldier.

The guard points to me. The man’s head snaps around and I am speared by a gray gaze that is as cold and hard as the stone at my back.

He takes a step in my direction. “Who are you?” he asks in a low, angry voice.

Before I can answer, Ismae shoves him aside. “The message was for me, Duval. Oh! Sybella!” Then she throws herself at me and I am encased in a fierce hug. I hug her back, surprised at how very much I want to weep into her shoulder. She is alive. And she is here. For a long moment, that is enough, and I simply savor the feel of her familiar arms about me.

She pulls away to eye me carefully. “Is it really you?”

I smile, although I can tell it is a lopsided effort. “In the flesh.”

“The oak leaves?” The nobleman’s impatience rolls off him in waves as he clenches the silver brooch in his hand. Duval, Ismae called him, which means he is the bastard brother of the duchess.

“I have brought you something,” I tell them. “There.” I nod to where Beast and Yannic wait on their horses.

Duval’s face lights up just as Ismae’s did when she saw me, but before he can hurry to him, I grab his arm. “He is gravely injured. Once you get him off that horse, you will need men and a litter to move him. And you must do it quietly. I bring much news and none of it good.”

Duval frowns his understanding and gives the guards an order to send for help—and to keep quiet about it—then rushes off to greet his friend.

“You did it!” Ismae whispers fiercely. “You got him free. I knew you could.”

I stare at her. “You knew of my orders?”

She grabs my hands. “It was my idea! The only way I could think of to get you out of there. Every time I saw you in Guerande, I feared for your safety and your sanity. Now here you are, and that haunted, mad glint is gone from your eyes.”

I do not know whether to kiss her for getting me out of d’Albret’s household or slap her for all the trouble her idea has caused me. In any case, her words ring true. I no longer feel as if I dance along the edge of madness.

Ismae puts her arm though mine, and we begin walking toward the others. “I will never forgive the reverend mother for assigning you to d’Albret. She might as well have sent you into the Underworld itself.”

A faint wave of panic threatens, then recedes. Ismae does not know—has never known—my true identity, for all that we are like sisters. I am saved from further conversation when I hear Beast bellow, “Saint’s teeth! You’re alive? How is that possible?”

It is Duval who answers. “By the same batch of miracles that has you astride that horse, you great ox.”

Then Ismae and I must jump aside as a half a dozen men come trotting by bearing an empty litter. Ismae points them toward Duval and Beast. “Come,” I say. I let go of her arm and hurry after the litter. “I must give them instructions as to Beast’s care.”

Over Beast’s loud protestations that he is fine, I warn Duval that, in addition to having a fever, Beast cannot put any weight on his leg.

Duval and the men have a quick conference among themselves. “We will take him to the convent run by the sisters of Saint Brigantia. If anyone can tend his injuries, it will be them.” He shoots me a look that lets me know he will be wanting answers soon, then he directs his men to help Beast.

But it is no easy thing to remove an injured twenty-stone man from his horse, and it cannot be done without some jostling and bumping. Beast grits his teeth, and his face turns white as he mutters something about being tossed around like a sack of onions. Then one of the men loses his grip, and the horse startles, slamming Beast’s wounded leg between its flank and the helping guard, and Beast faints.

I sigh. “I fear that has become a new habit of his,” I murmur to the others. “Although it is probably for the better.” I motion for Yannic to dismount so he and I can show the damn-fool soldiers how to get Beast off the horse without killing him.

It is clear that Duval is torn between concern for his friend and his duty to his sister. In the end, I assure him that Yannic is as able as any of us to see to Beast’s care, so he gives stern instructions to the men on what to tell the sisters of Saint Brigantia, with promises that he will be there shortly. Then he turns to me. “Come now. We would hear your accounting of what has happened.”

“But of course, my lord.” Indeed, I cannot wait to discharge what I know. It is as if I have been carrying a hot ember deep inside my body that is slowly turning my insides to ash. It will be no hardship to be rid of that burden.

Ismae loops her arm through mine as we follow Duval to the palace door. “Where is he taking us?” I ask under my breath.

“To the duchess’s chamber, where she is holding council with her advisors.”

“At this hour?”

Ismae grows sober. “At all hours, I’m afraid.”

“Are they trustworthy, these advisors of hers?” I have not been impressed with the steadfastness of her guardians Marshal Rieux and Madame Dinan.

She grimaces. “Yes, that is why it is such a small group.”

As Duval leads us through the maze of palace halls and corridors, I allow myself to adjust to the cacophony of the beating hearts and hammering pulses. It is as if a hundred minstrels have all decided to bang their drums at the same time.

I also study the faces of the people I pass—servants, retainers, even the pages—trying to get a sense of their characters.

Duval leads us to a small chamber guarded by two sentries, who step forward to open the door to admit us. The duchess stands at a large table flanked by three men who stare at the map in front of her. One is dressed in travel-stained clothes and it is clear he has only just arrived. The second man is dressed in bishop’s robes and hovers near the duchess like a fat scarlet toad. The third is slender and serious, his brow wrinkled in thought. With relief, I realize I recognize none of her advisors, which means they will not recognize me.

It is the first time I have seen the duchess up close. She is young, and short, with fine skin and a high noble brow. Even though she is but thirteen years of age, there is something regal about her that commands respect. At the sound of our entry, they all look up, questions in their eyes.

Duval’s smile transforms his face. “Beast is here. In Rennes.”

The duchess clasps her hands together as if in prayer and closes her eyes, joy lighting her young face. “Praise God,” she says.

“I rather think we should be praising Mortain,” Duval says dryly, “as it is His hand that guided him here.” He motions in my direction, and all eyes turn to me.

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